


Know Your Story Like I Do

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos runs into a familiar face while out with d'Artagnan and the others. D'Artagnan and Athos compete for the spot of no. 1 awkward boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~ She Wears Bohemian Skirts, I Wear Dresses Sometimes, She's a Social Worker and I'm On the Police Force ~

The morning air of Paris was cool in d’Artagnan’s throat. He breathed deeply, savoring the taste of lightening shadows. 

“Morning was always my favorite time of day,” he said to Athos, who walked at his side. 

Athos grunted. 

“I used to get up early and help Papa and Chiara with the horses,” d’Artagnan continued. “The farm always looked so perfect with the sun just touching the tops of the trees.” 

Athos grunted again. D’Artagnan was getting pretty good at deciphering Athos’ different grunts. This one fell into the ‘Morning’ category, under the sub-category of ‘It’s too early for higher brain functions.’ 

“It smells the same here,” said d’Artagnan. Helping Athos wake up involved submerging him in conversation, much like putting a hypothermia victim into a warm bath. Sooner or later he’d thaw out and realize he was expected to show signs of life. “The farm was all hay and horses, and Paris is a city, but the morning smells the same.” 

Paris was a kaleidoscope of scents -- a man with a cigarillo, a street-cleaner with a sharply lemon bucket of suds, the ashy smoke of a brick oven. Athos, to d’Artagnan’s left, exuded a hint of shaving cream atop a layer of sleep-heavy musk. 

Under it all was the cold, pure smell of morning. That was no different than on the farm. D’Artagnan was comforted by the thought that the night, and the sun warming the rich earth, smelled the same across France. 

“Hey, I think I smell…” D’Artagnan trailed off. Could it be…? 

“There are cupcakes up ahead,” he whispered. He tugged at Athos’ arm. “Come on, I can’t wait.” 

This time, Athos’ grunt was a little more expressive, curving up at the end with a note of “Why are words coming from your mouth” and also carrying a hint of “Oh god it’s so bright, is that the sun, where’s my bed, how did I get here.” 

“We’re almost there,” d’Artagnan promised. “I’ll find you a coffee first thing.” 

Athos perked up at the promise of coffee, and he dragged his feet marginally less as d’Artagnan led him to the fair and flea market that settled into one of Paris’ cramped city squares once every year. As they neared the edge of the square, tourists and Parisians alike swept around d’Artagnan and Athos, eager to explore the sprawling city inside the plaza. 

D’Artagnan looped his arm more securely through Athos’ and made sure he had a good grip on Athos’ elbow. 

The fair was bursting with noise and movement. Scarves of pastel silk waved gently from one stall. Silver jewelry and houseware shone in another. Plastic toys swung from a display line; finely crafted wooden games sat behind cases. 

The noise seemed to rouse Athos a little. He squinted at the crowd and rasped, “Coffee.” 

D’Artagnan guided him to a small kiosk and ordered a large black coffee with sugar for Athos, and a frappuccino for himself. 

Athos buried his face in his cup. He emerged a few minutes later looking reasonably alive. 

“Tell me Constance and Aramis are already here,” he demanded. “Otherwise I’ll go back to bed.” 

“You’d have to find your own way back, and I’m pretty sure you sleepwalked here,” d’Artagnan teased. “You’d get lost in a heartbeat.” 

“I can find my way.” 

“For the sake of our relationship, I won’t bring up the time you tried to visit me in Lupiac and ended up in Spain --” 

“Didn’t you just bring it up now?” 

D’Artagnan grinned and looped his arm through Athos’ again. He steered Athos in the direction of Constance and Aramis’ location. They dodged overexcited fairgoers and over-sized displays. “I’ll take pity on you. I can’t tease an old man.” 

"I'm not old." Athos said with real annoyance. He tugged his arm in d’Artagnan’s grip; not trying to get away, just expressing his discontent. 

"Sorry," said d'Artagnan, repentant. "I didn't mean to tease you." He pressed his nose to Athos’ cheek in an apologetic not-kiss. “You’re in the springtime of youth.” 

Athos grunted, this time one of the “I reluctantly accept your apology” types. "Hmff. You’ll feel the same in a few years. Just wait, you’ll be begging me to let you sleep in.” 

“When that morning comes, we’ll just take the day off and sleep in together.” He saw Athos wince and drew back in alarm. “What’s…?” 

“Just the knee,” Athos said reluctantly. 

D’Artagnan resisted sighing at Athos. 

Porthos had been right when he’d told d’Artagnan that Athos didn’t like being hurt, or pitied, or pitied for being hurt. It had been a trial and a half to get Athos to rest for even a day after his fall down the stairs during the Conein gang bust. D’Artagnan had bribed him to stay in bed by getting him hooked on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Even so, Aramis had complained about Athos texting him and Porthos every few minutes, asking for updates on their cases. 

The bruises had all faded by now -- even the amusingly suggestive bruise on Athos’ cheek -- and the only thing that remained of his hasty trip down the stairs was a sore knee. His doctor had prescribed rest and caution. 

After that diagnosis, d’Artagnan had instantly accepted that Athos’ knee would never quite heal. Athos was too stubborn to rest and too foolhardy to display caution for the time his knee would require to fix itself. Athos’ knee would always cause him discomfort. 

As much as d’Artagnan was exasperated with Athos for jumping into danger, he couldn’t forget that Athos had been hurt while trying to take a criminal down. He couldn’t blame Athos for that. 

He hated that he now knew the feeling of Athos jerking awake beside him in the middle of the night, trying to catch himself from falling down those stairs again. 

“I could kill Bellagio for what he did to you,” d’Artagnan said. 

Athos cast him a look. 

“Or just put him away for another life sentence?” D’Artagnan amended sheepishly. 

“He’ll be out soon enough,” said Athos. “You’ll have your chance to catch him again in, oh, seven years.” 

“Seven years! He was charged with life in prison.” 

“Life sentences never last for life for men of his influence,” said Athos. 

“That’s how the law should work. I’m not naive,” d’Artagnan added before Athos could say anything. “I know there are all sorts of loopholes, but it isn’t _right_.” He kicked at the ground. “The law should be equal for everyone.” 

“But if the law was miscarried?” Athos asked. “What then? Does the law have the right to pursue what it’s already lost?” 

Something about his voice made d’Artagnan look at him closely. There were lines of tension around his eyes and his mouth. He was making his “remembering Milady” face. 

“I depends if the officers acted on purpose,” d’Artagnan said slowly. “Malice is unforgivable. Being tricked by the criminal is another thing. There’s no way to stop someone who exploits the system to wiggle free.” 

The tension lines in Athos’ face smoothed away. D’Artagnan relaxed. 

“In that case,” said Athos, “can’t you say that Bellagio is exploiting the system by tricking judges to accept his money instead of delivering his sentence?” His mouth twitched. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t help snorting. Athos had neatly tricked him into admitting the system’s fallacy in Bellagio’s case. He opened his mouth to argue, but Athos cut him off with a nod to someone beyond a display of matryoshka dolls. 

Constance turned and caught sight of them. She waved them over with a flapping gesture and mouthed something that d’Artagnan couldn’t make out. 

D’Artagnan squeezed Athos’ arm to stop him for a moment. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but drink in the sight of Athos, resplendent in the morning sun, shining brighter than anyone d’Artagnan had ever seen. 

“You don’t have to punish yourself over it,” d’Artagnan said, quietly enough for the words to get lost in the noise of the square. 

He wouldn’t say that it was all behind him, because the loss of Athos’ brother would never be in past tense. As with d’Artagnan’s father, the absence of Thomas was never-ending, a void left unfilled; year after year of recurring death. 

“You aren’t guilty of anything,” d’Artagnan told Athos. “The law failed you, not the other way around.” 

Athos leaned close, blocking out everything else in d’Artagnan’s awareness. He cupped d’Artagnan’s chin in his hand and traced his thumb along d’Artagnan’s jaw. His touch lingered at the corner of d’Artagnan’s mouth, then fell away. In the midst of a public crowd, it was as close to a kiss as Athos would come. 

“Thank you,” Athos said. 

Someone brushed past them and their bubble was broken. They returned to the sounds of the fair, and the sight of Constance rolling her eyes at them. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever see this day,” Constance said when they joined her. “You’ve done the impossible, d’Artagnan: Athos awake and dressed before noon on a weekend.” 

“I’ve seen both separately,” Aramis said, wandering up behind her with what looked to be a lyre. “Asleep at his desk, still fully dressed? Certainly.” 

“Don’t tease him,” d’Artagnan snapped. He still felt a bit guilty for teasing Athos about his age earlier. 

“We have a duty to tease Athos at least once a week,” Constance said solemnly. “Otherwise his head inflates and he just soars away.” 

“And he gets cranky when he hasn’t been teased in a while,” Aramis said, winking at d’Artagnan, who felt the guilty knot in his stomach loosen. “We have to keep him on his toes.” 

“I’ve had coffee,” Athos informed Aramis. “I am now awake enough to punch you.” 

“You wouldn’t want to cause a ruckus, would you?” Aramis edged back out of arm’s reach for good measure, holding the antique lyre in front of him like a shield. Athos frowned after him. 

“Come over here, I want your opinion,” Constance said to d’Artagnan. She grabbed his arm and d’Artagnan untangled from Athos to let her drag him over to a booth with antique silver weapons and jewelry laid out on display. 

She held out a small, ornate dagger. “What do you think of this?” 

“For using, or putting on your wall?” D’Artagnan turned it over in his hands, tracing the elaborate carved swirls. “It looks like ivory.” 

Constance frowned. “Oh, I’m not sure I want to have a knife made from elephant tooth.” 

“What about this one?” Aramis appeared, sans lyre, and passed Constance another dagger in a metal sheath. 

D’Artagnan looked around for Athos and found him examining a set of old inkwells. Of all the things he could look at… D’Artagnan shook his head and returned his attention to Constance’s search. 

“Ooh, look at this.” Constance held up a silver hair clip in the shape of two dragons, their tails intertwined and their mouths open in silent roars. One dragon had a green gem for its eye; the other had a pockmark where the gem had fallen out. 

“It’s pretty,” Constance said wistfully. She caught the fluttering price tag and winced. “I don’t really need it, though.” 

D’Artagnan spotted a hook on the chin of the left dragon. “What’s this?” He tapped the hook and it unlatched. Constance barely caught the tails of the dragons as the bottom half of the hair clip fell off, revealing a dull, age-oxidized blade. Constance held the two parts in her hands, the winking heads and the tail-blade, and gaped. 

“Oh,” she breathed reverently, “I definitely need this.” 

“That’ll make Treville think twice about giving you newbie duty,” Aramis said. 

“Hey!” d’Artagnan protested. 

“No offense, newbie.” 

“What do you think?” Constance asked, ignoring both of them in favor of snapping the hair clip back together and holding it up to her head. “Does it look alright?” 

“With a little polish, it will do fine,” Athos said, wandering over from the selection of inkwells. 

“I shouldn’t, though,” said Constance, chewing her lip. “It’s a bit expensive… and I couldn’t carry it on the job. It’s really not worth the price.” 

“Think of how cool it is, though,” said d’Artagnan. 

Aramis snorted. “The young and brash… has a good point. It’s really cool, Constance.” 

“Well, if it’s cool,” Constance said scathingly, but d’Artagnan could tell she was weakening. “Oh, alright. I like it. Just don’t let me buy anything else today, alright?” 

Her phone buzzed as she returned from paying the booth’s owner, tucking the wrapped clip into her purse. Constance consulted the screen. “Flea and Porthos just left the shelter,” she reported. “They’ll be here soon. Porthos read about a new café around the corner,” she told d’Artagnan and Athos. “We thought we’d have lunch there.” 

“Sounds good,” said Athos. He frowned after Aramis, who was approaching the booth’s owner with an enormous broadsword clutched in both hands. “Excuse me.” He strode away to intercept Aramis. 

D’Artagnan waited until Athos was out of earshot to turn to Constance. 

“And how is Flea?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Constance smacked him in the chest. D’Artagnan accepted the pain with a yelp. “Xe’s doing fine. Xe stayed over last night.” 

“You still haven’t told…?” d’Artagnan jerked his head in the direction of Athos and Aramis. 

“No. And we’re keeping it that way!” 

“No judgement, just wondering.” D’Artagnan fell silent as Aramis approached them. He was being herded by Athos, who was steadfast in his rejection of Aramis’ pleas. 

“I still think it would have looked brilliant in the office,” Aramis argued. 

“If I wanted a tacky decoration for the office, I would have let you keep your Furby collection on your desk.” 

D’Artagnan clucked his tongue the way his sister used to do. “Let’s settle down, now.” 

Aramis looked between d’Artagnan and Athos. “You two are too smug for your own good. You deserve each other. Spoilsports.” 

He put his nose in the air and marched away. There was a brief scuffle with a life-sized ballerina doll, after which Aramis put his nose back down and watched where he was going. He disappeared into the crowd. 

“We’d better go after him, or he’ll be trying to buy that doll next,” said d’Artagnan in the resigned way he had learned to apply to Aramis. 

They caught up to Aramis in a minute and pulled him away from a display of creepy, wide-eyed china dolls. They left that booth and wandered through the fair with no destination, pointing at various oddities. 

They stopped at a bakery stall, where Constance bought a hot chocolate and d’Artagnan looked longingly at a tray of cupcakes. They were all different flavors: pear with marzipan frosting, and pistachio with cream cheese whip, and triple-chocolate with blood orange icing. 

Athos came up behind him and looked over d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “You’re not getting one?” 

D’Artagnan swallowed heavily. The mango frosting looked so good, but… “I’m being responsible and not spoiling my appetite.” 

Athos laughed in a short puff of breath that stirred the hair on d’Artagnan’s nape. D’Artagnan shivered. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” Athos murmured, his lips brushing d’Artagnan’s neck. 

“Distracting me.” 

“From what?” 

Constance appeared in front of them, blocking d’Artagnan’s view of the cupcakes. “From public decency, most like,” she said. “Stop canoodling and come over here. Porthos said he’s at a stall with Medieval costumes.” 

D’Artagnan and Athos straightened sheepishly. “I wanted to agonize over the cupcakes a little more,” d’Artagnan protested to Constance’s back. 

“You can agonize later,” Athos promised. 

“Oh, good.” 

They wandered through the market hand-in-hand, trailing behind Constance and Aramis. It was mid-morning now, and the sun was heating the square. A low breeze sang through the crowd. Soon enough the breeze would be warmed too, and the square would turn to a sticky, sweaty mass of tourists. D’Artagnan fervently hoped they found the café Porthos had heard of soon. 

Ahead of them, Constance waved to an unseen person in the crowd, and then Porthos appeared, muscling his way through the crowd. Flea appeared next, a tiny figure with just as much intimidation factor as Porthos. D’Artagnan watched as Constance rose on her toes to greet Porthos and then bent to Flea, curving her body toward xir. Flea tipped xir head back to look at Constance, swaying closer as xe said hello. Constance carefully left a space between them, but her body betrayed her longing, bending toward Flea like a willow reaching for the riverbank. 

D’Artagnan wondered if Athos saw the same thing he did. He wondered how long Constance and Flea would try to keep their relationship a secret, and how long it the others would let them get away with it once they found out -- if they hadn’t realized already. 

He put those thoughts away as he and Athos joined the group at the booth, which overflowed with dresses and hats in vaguely Medieval fashion and a few pieces of fake armor. 

“D’Artagnan,” Flea greeted in xir brusque way. Xe rose onto tip-toes to brush kisses onto both his cheeks. He did the same. Flea was wearing a purpleish color on xir lips, and xe had xir hair up in a half-ponytail. 

“Nice lip stuff,” he said. 

"Thanks. I was feeling more 'girl' than 'demi' today,” Flea said. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but look at Constance, who was hovering over Flea’s shoulder. He didn’t comment, though, that Flea’s lip stuff was the exact same shade as Constance's new lip stain. Flea must have nicked it from Constance’s vanity that morning. 

“How’s the murder business?” Flea asked. 

He shook his head. “I know you well enough to refuse to answer that.” D’Artagnan had fallen for that trap only once, when he’d said, “Oh, alright,” and Flea had said, “How many people have you murdered this week, then, copper?” 

Flea’s smile was sharp as a blade. “You’re learning.” 

A muffled shout interrupted them. They looked at the booth, where a collapsed rack nearly obscured a flailing leg. 

Porthos strode into the booth and reached one hand down to pull Aramis out of the pile of clothing. Aramis emerged gasping and clutching a handful of cloth. 

Aramis staggered out of the booth and thrust the bundle at Constance. Constance shook it out and revealed an ochre dress, mid-calf-length, with laces up the front in a false bodice. 

Flea scoffed. “ _Not_ her style.” 

“Not for her,” Aramis said, brushing himself off. “For d’Artagnan.” He turned to Constance. “Second opinion: what d’you think?” 

Constance held it up to d’Artagnan’s chest. "Oh, it brings out your eyes, d'Artagnan!" 

Porthos peered at d’Artagnan’s eyes. "Yeah, I guess they look a little more hazel-y."

"Like burnished copper," Aramis said.

Porthos turned to him. "Have you ever even seen burnished copper, or are you just quoting from romance novels?" 

“Shush, I’m being poetic.” 

D’Artagnan looked down at the dress. He frowned. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t wear that.” 

“Why not?” Flea said, crossing xir arms. 

“It’s not really my style.” 

“The color?” 

D’Artagnan crinkled his nose. “Dresses. They’re awful for running. Besides, I’d have to shave my legs and that’s too much trouble.” 

Constance let go of the dress, making d’Artagnan grab at it to keep it up. “Have you worn dresses before?” 

“Sure, but it takes hours to put them on. The hair, makeup, don’t get me started on the waxing.” He rolled his eyes expressively. Just thinking about all the preparation he’d had to put into wearing a miniskirt in university made him tired. If he wore a dress, people expected other things: shaved legs that always grew hair again too quickly, eyeliner that smeared, pretty shoes that were terrible to walk in, and on and on. 

“You know that you can have hairy legs and wear a dress, right?” Flea said. Xe was looking at him speculatively. 

“People can, but not me. If I’m going to do something, I’ll do it right.” 

“There’s no wrong or right in gender, grasshopper,” Aramis said. 

“Methinks it’s time we gave you the Talk,” Porthos said. His thoughtful frown turned into a grin in a slow bloom of terrible promise. 

“You’re aware I have five queer sisters, right?” 

They ignored him. 

“Come with us, young d’Artagnan, and we’ll explore the gender spectrum,” said Aramis. He slung his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, jostling the dress. 

“Explore, hell; we’ll spelunk it,” said Flea. 

D’Artagnan looked at Athos for help, but the man had a gleam in his eye that d’Artagnan knew intimately. 

“It would look good on you,” Athos said. 

“You really think so?” D’Artagnan looked down at the dress again. He imagined dressing up for Athos. A slow smile unfolded on his lips as he thought of Athos undoing the laces with tortuous patience and rolling stockings down and off of d’Artagnan’s legs. Sliding the dress off d’Artagnan body and letting it pool on the floor of Athos’ bedroom. 

Well, he certainly wouldn’t mind shaving his legs for that. 

D’Artagnan smiled cheekily. “I might wear it especially for you.” He held eye contact with Athos until Athos looked away. D’Artagnan knew the tips of Athos’ ears were burning scarlet under his hair. 

“Athos? Is that you?” 

The voice took them all by surprise. Aramis dropped his arm from d’Artagnan’s shoulders. D’Artagnan looked over at the speaker, a willowy person with their long blonde hair piled atop their head in an artistically messy bun. 

Athos was looking over at the newcomer too, only he looked less confused than d’Artagnan felt. “Ninon?” he said. 

“It is you!” Ninon swept forward and kissed Athos on both cheeks, much as Flea had done to d’Artagnan a few minutes ago. Athos accepted the gesture calmly, but his eyes slid over to d’Artagnan. 

D’Artagnan frowned. Why could he read some measure of guilt in Athos’ expression? 

“So this is Ninon,” Flea muttered. 

D’Artagnan didn’t have time to ask xir what xe meant before Athos was turning to the group and saying, “This is Ninon de Larroque. She --” He turned to Ninon. “Do you still use she/her pronouns?” 

Ninon blinked. “I suppose so. I never thought about it. Why, Athos, you never asked me about pronouns when we dated. You certainly have changed since then, haven’t you?” 

D’Artagnan stiffened. He thought he heard Porthos whisper “Here we go,” but he was already striding forward to stand next to Athos. Athos shifted closer to d’Artagnan, away from Ninon, and d’Artagnan took selfish pleasure in the feeling of Athos’ shoulder brushing against his. 

“You two dated?” he asked Athos, regarding Ninon warily. 

Athos cleared his throat. "Ninon, I don't believe you've had the pleasure. This is d'Artagnan, my boyfriend. D'Artagnan, this is Ninon. She and I... dated briefly, a few years ago." 

Ninon’s polite smile widened. "Enchanted," she said. She held out her hand and d'Artagnan wasn't sure for a second whether he should shake it or kiss the back of it. Ninon wore a bohemian blouse and a loose-floor length skirt, but she held herself like a princess, with her back straight and her chin up, her messy hair like a crown of gold. 

“Nice to meet you,” he said. He settled for shaking Ninon’s hand. She had a small hand but a firm grip. 

He could feel her sizing him up too. He thanked all the small mercies that had aligned this morning to make sure he was wearing his best pair of skinny jeans and the vest that his sister had given him for Christmas last year. Even so, he felt underdressed next to Ninon, who wore bohemian-chic like a power suit. 

“It’s always a bit awkward meeting one’s ex for the first time in three years,” Ninon said brightly. “In public, too. Isn’t this a treat. You needn’t worry about me, dear,” she said to d’Artagnan. She smiled like she was holding laughter behind her teeth. “I’m in no danger of stealing Athos back. I ended it in the first place.” 

“And I’m not likely to acquiesce to being stolen,” Athos interjected. 

D’Artagnan stared at Ninon. 

“You ended it?” d’Artagnan said. “Why? That’s-- I’m sorry, but why would you break up with him? Isn’t he good enough for you?” 

“D’Artagnan,” groaned Athos. 

“I mean it, Athos. I can’t believe anyone would break up with you after dating you for a minute. Who’d let go of you?” 

Ninon’s laughter bubbled out of her. “Shouldn’t you be glad I ended it?” 

D’Artagnan paused. “Oh. Well, yeah. But it’s the principle of it.” 

Constance spoke up, and d’Artagnan looked over to see her with her face buried in her palm. “D’Artagnan, could you stop embarrassing yourself for one minute?” 

“I’m only speaking the truth,” d’Artagnan said staunchly. 

“It’s good to know that Athos has found a defender,” Ninon said. “We didn’t date for long, you know, but I consider him a friend.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan saw a flash of emotion on Athos’ face. When he turned to look at Athos, it had fled. 

“Ninon, you remember Porthos and Aramis,” Athos said. Porthos nodded and Aramis tipped the faux-Medieval cap he’d taken from the booth. 

"Good to see you again,” said Porthos. 

“And you,” Ninon said. “Are you three still working at your agency?” 

“Still going strong. I hope you’ve been keeping out of jail since we last saw you.” 

"Oh, I've been in and out. It's been marvelous."

“I seem to remember expending quite a lot of effort keeping you out of jail," said Aramis, raising his eyebrows. 

"And I certainly appreciate your efforts," said Ninon. “But I’ve been visiting prisons in a different manner. I started a company, you see, that supplies educational supplements to people who are unable to finish their traditional education. Prisoners make up a large percentage of our clients.” 

“That’s admirable,” said d’Artagnan, hiding his surprise that someone with Ninon’s obviously wealthy background would commit herself to such a cause. 

Ninon smiled and nodded, accepting the praise. “After my own stint in jail, for being accused of something I had never done, I realized that the law fails its citizens too often. I hope to fix at least some of the damages done to prisoners of the state.” 

“Ah,” d’Artagnan, the law, said uncomfortably. 

“I’m sorry, I’ve been unbearably rude,” said Ninon. “Porthos and Aramis, it’s good to see you again. And…?” 

“This is Constance Bonacieux,” said Athos. “And Flea Glascott.” 

“Not Flea Glascott of the Coeur de Miracles?” said Ninon. 

Flea blinked. “Yes.” 

“I’ve heard of your work with the shelters for queer youth. I do admire your mission statement.” 

Flea’s lips twisted. “Thanks.” 

D’Artagnan winced on Ninon’s behalf. The polished accent was grating on his nerves, and he didn’t even have Flea’s ingrained disdain for the upper class. 

“I’ve been playing with the idea of a partnership with LGBTQ youth organizations,” Ninon continued. “We’re seeking to expand the influence of queer leaders in education communities. If your group has any certified lecturers, do encourage them to contact me.” 

Flea showed xir teeth. “Done. You’re looking at one right now.” 

“Oh, excellent! You’ll do it, then?” 

Flea faltered, wrong-footed. “What?” 

“You’ll speak to my board? I’ve been trying to hire a lecturer for months, but none had the qualifications I needed.” Ninon continued to smile prettily. She knew exactly what she was doing with her upper-class accent, d’Artagnan realized. 

Flea realized it, too. Xe straightened and tossed xir hair. “I won’t waste my time with anything but a full partnership. Equal space on official releases and split profits. And,” xe added, warningly, as Ninon’s smile upped wattage, “my proper pronouns on all documents.” 

“Of course,” said Ninon. She extended a hand and Flea shook it. “Shall we meet to discuss the details?” 

Flea hesitated and looked at the rest of the group. D’Artagnan’s stomach chose that moment to remember their lunch plans, and rumbled with impatience. 

“Ninon?” 

They all turned again. 

“Agnes, I was about to call you,” said Ninon. She swept forward to the person who stood on the edge of the group, Agnes, who had dark hair cut in a short bob. They were holding a toddler against their shoulder. The baby was murmuring fitfully, beating one chubby fist against Agnes’ back. 

Ninon slid her arm around Agnes’ waist and leaned in close to peer at the drowsy child. “How is our angel?” 

“Henri is getting cranky. I think we should find some shade for him.” Agnes looked around at the group. “Did I interrupt something?” 

“Oh, I just ran into an old friend. Have I told you about Athos?” Agnes shook her head. “Athos, this is my fianceé, Agnes. Agnes, this is Athos. We dated for a little while, before I met you.” 

Agnes smiled at Athos, inclining her head in lieu of offering the hand that was propping up Henri. “Very nice to meet you.” 

“And you,” said Athos. 

“And this is d’Artagnan, Athos’ boyfriend,” continued Ninon, “and their friends Flea, Constance, Aramis, and Porthos.” They all waved awkwardly at Agnes. Porthos offered a finger to the toddler, who grabbed it and tried to gnaw on it. 

“Oh, Henri, don’t -- I’m sorry,” Agnes said to Porthos. “He’s curious about everything.” 

Porthos beamed. “It’s no problem. I bet he gets into a lot of trouble.” 

“Henri is very well behaved,” said Ninon, looking proud. 

“You say that because you sleep through his two a.m. tantrums,” Agnes said, playfully bumping against Ninon. Ninon smiled fondly at her. 

Porthos glanced around at the rest of them. He raised his eyebrows at Athos and d’Artagnan in silent question. 

D’Artagnan looked at Athos and shrugged. Athos nodded to Porthos. 

Porthos cleared his throat and the two women looked at him. “We’re going to lunch at a new café up the street, if you’d like to join us.” 

Ninon exchanged a glance with Agnes, who shook her head slightly and cupped her hand around Henri’s head. 

“I’m afraid we should get Henri out of the sun,” Ninon said. “But we absolutely must do lunch sometime soon.” 

She produced a business card from her designer purse and handed it to Flea. “My number and email are here. Give me a ring. I look forward to working with you.” 

She turned to Athos and d’Artagnan and gave them both a peck on the cheek. “It was lovely meeting you,” she said. “We must get together sometime. For a double-date, perhaps? Agnes and I love going out with other couples.” 

“I’d like that,” said Athos. The same flash of emotion as before passed over his face. This time d’Artagnan recognized it. 

“Yeah, we should definitely do that,” he said. “It was good meeting you, Ninon, Agnes.” 

“You too!” said Agnes. She and Ninon left for the nearest subway entrance just as Henri started to cry. The sound was soon lost in the crowd. 

The group stood in silence for a minute. 

“So that was Ninon,” said Flea. Xe was turning Ninon’s card over in xir hand. 

“What a blast, eh?” said Aramis. 

“Can we eat now?” said Constance. “My stomach is folding in on itself.” 

“The café’s this way,” said Porthos gesturing. 

They followed him out of the square, dodging some questionable booths and, in true Parisian fashion, muttering darkly about the number of tourists. 

D’Artagnan and Athos fell behind the others. Their hands found each other again and twined together. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Athos said. 

“Oh, did you orchestrate that totally chance meeting?” d’Artagnan asked in mock surprise. “That must have taken a lot of planning. Did you tell her to accidentally bump into us at the corner of Medieval Times and Blow-Up Doll Avenue?” 

Athos squeezed d’Artagnan’s hand. “Smartass.” 

D’Artagnan squeezed back. “Worrywart.” 

Athos was silent for another block. D’Artagnan watched Aramis and Porthos pretend to jostle each other off the sidewalk. He gave Athos time to sort out his words. 

Athos finally spoke. 

“I appreciated what you said earlier about my not being guilty. For… all that. But it's not true.” 

When d’Artagnan opened his mouth to refute that ridiculous statement, Athos shook his head. 

“I'm still grappling with... Thomas. His death, how I could have been so blind…” He collected himself. “You tell me I’m not guilty. I don’t know yet if I could absolve myself of that. But the aftermath, that was my fault. Jessica tells me I should have had a ‘network,’ but I pushed everyone away.” 

Athos looked down at their joined hands. “I never told you about the friends I had before the trial. Some were on the fence -- if I’d reached out to them they would have testified. But I broke all ties. Aramis and Porthos hung on out of sheer bloody determination. Ninon was.” He sighed. “Ninon was Aramis' idea. Getting back into dating, getting back into the kind of circles I had been in before... Before. It made sense. But I pushed her away too. I was unfair to everyone I knew in that time. I'm guilty of that.” 

D’Artagnan turned the words over in his mind. “You think you want to do the whole ‘network’ thing now?” 

“It’s past time I should have started socializing again.” 

“Fuck ‘should have,’” said d’Artagnan. “Fuck therapist keywords. Do you want to?” 

Athos drew in a shaky breath and held it. He exhaled in a rush. “Yes.” 

“Okay. We’ll do the double date thing. We’ll do the whole nine yards.” 

“Yes?” 

“Yeah.” D’Artagnan pressed a wet kiss to Athos’ cheek. “We’ll go on all the double-dates. We can make new friends. We can do all the romance shit.” 

“Seduce me with your words,” Athos said in a deadpan. D’Artagnan laughed and brought their joined hands up to press a kiss to Athos’ knuckles. 

They were almost at the café before Athos spoke again. “I forgot what it was like. To have people to rely on. You reminded me of that. You’re my anchor, d’Artagnan.” 

“Athos, if you wanted me to dress up in a sailor suit, you only had to ask.” 

“D’Artagnan.” 

“Sorry. I’m honored to be your anchor.” 

“No, d’Artagnan -- you’re still holding the dress.” 

D’Artagnan looked down. The ochre dress was still clutched in his left hand, crushed and sweat-stained from his nervous encounter with Ninon, and unpaid for. 

“Aw, shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flea's organization of homeless shelters is a play on words. The "Cour de Miracles" was the Court of Miracles (a very real place in 1700s Paris). "Coeur de Miracles" is the Heart of Miracles. A title befitting an LGBTQ youth shelter, I thought.


	2. Chapter 2

After some hasty deliberation (“You two are _law enforcement_ ,” said Constance; “d’Artagnan, I’m your _superior_. Pay for that or so help me--”), they left the others at the café and promised to return once they had paid for the dress.

The booth owner looked surprised when d’Artagnan presented him with the dress, and waved off d’Artagnan’s apologies for accidentally absconding with it. He clucked over the sweat stains that d’Artagnan had left and gave him instructions for taking them out.

D’Artagnan rejoined Athos with the dress, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, under his arm.

“I can’t believe I forgot I was holding it,” d’Artagnan groaned for the third time.

“I’m surprised the proprietor didn’t notice,” said Athos. “It’s a well-made dress.”

D’Artagnan looked at him with delight. “You like it?” He leaned in closer. “Would you like to see it on me?”

“Perhaps,” said Athos. “You had to buy it in this condition; we may as well put it to good use.”

“Pumpkin, I’m trying to set the mood,” said d’Artagnan. “Now tell me about how you’d like to rip this dress off me.”

“I wouldn’t rip something you’ve paid good money for.”

D’Artagnan groaned. “Work with me--”

“I would slide it off you,” Athos continued in a low voice. “But not before I’ve unlaced your shoes--”

“Am I wearing shoes in this scenario?” d’Artagnan asked, pressing himself closer to Athos.

“--unlaced your heels and kissed my way up your legs, pausing at the spot behind your knee.” Athos smirked when d’Artagnan shivered. “You’d have your hands in my hair and the dress up around your waist. And that’s when--”

D’Artagnan jumped away as Athos’ phone vibrated against his hip. “Jesus!”

He caught his breath. “That ridiculous phone case,” he said. “I swear I thought you were, uh,” he glanced around. “Really excited.”

Athos slid his phone out of the case strapped to his belt. “It’s expedient.”

“You say you’re not an old man, and yet you wear the fanny pack of phone cases.”

“And you dress like a hippie,” Athos said, frowning at the phone. “I don’t recognize the number.”

“I do not dress like a hippie,” d’Artagnan said on instinct. “I dress like a cool, normal person. Wait -- answer it.”

Athos raised an eyebrow and answered the call. D’Artagnan raised one back and waited. His hunch was paid off when Athos said, “Ninon,” his face slackening in surprise. Then he said, “One moment, please,” and held the phone out in front of him. He poked at the screen.

“What are you trying to do?” asked d’Artagnan, tamping down on the urge to snatch the phone from Athos and do it himself.

“Put it on speaker.”

“It’s the green button -- no, the green. To the right. Actually, hold on.”

He did reach out now, but only to still Athos’ fingers over the speaker button. “You don’t have to put it on speaker.”

Athos looked uncomfortable. “It’s a delicate situation.”

“What are you going to do, have phone sex in front of me?” D’Artagnan regretted his flippancy when Athos’ expression shut down. He mentally kicked himself all the way up the arse, then kicked the specter of Milady for good measure.

He reminded himself: time and patience. Athos needed reassurance, not jokes.

“I trust you,” he said. He squeezed Athos’ hand and let go. “Put it on speaker if you like, but I’m not worried.”

Athos held d’Artagnan’s gaze as he pressed the speakerphone button. “Ninon,” he said. “I apologize. We had some technical difficulties.”

“Is d’Artagnan there?” said Ninon.

D’Artagnan leaned over the phone. “Hi, Ninon. You’re on speaker.”

“Oh, good. I wanted both of you. If you still want to double-date, we’re in a bit of a pickle. I’m going to a conference in England on Thursday and I won’t be back until the Friday after. Agnes just called Henri’s babysitter, and she won’t be available to look after him any time this week except for tonight. So you see, we could either meet this evening or in two weeks. What do you say?”

Athos looked at d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan remembered the expression that had crossed Athos’ face when Ninon had said that she considered him a friend: the flash of surprise. He thought of Athos alone for years. Of Athos saying, “I’m guilty for that.”

“Tonight,” d’Artagnan said firmly. “We’d love to see you tonight.”

“Brilliant,” said Ninon. “How about Gris?”

“Gris?” d’Artagnan asked.

“It’s the best new organic restaurant. Completely locally-sourced, you’ll love it.”

“I’m sure,” Athos said. “We look forward to it.”

“Good. I’ve already called the maître d’, and the only time they have spot for tonight is in three hours.”

“You already called,” Athos said.

“Of course I did, darling. We’ll see you then!” She hung up.

Athos sighed. “Now you see why she and I would never have worked.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “Because she likes organic food?”

“Because she never waits for an answer. She always went ahead with her own plans.”

“Oh, I see.” D’Artagnan nodded sagely. “You two are too much alike.”

“I’m not in the least bit as stubborn as she is.”

D’Artagnan snorted. He affected a posh, nasal drawl: “‘D’Artagnan, of _course_ I can make dinner by myself, you shouldn’t come over.’”

“I can make dinner,” Athos insisted coolly. “It’s that damn oven’s fault for being so flammable.”

“The point of an oven is that it scorches _other_ things. You confused the oven so much that it lit itself on fire.”

“Obviously a fault of the manufacturer.”

“The fault in our ovens,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Is that another mim?”

“ _Meme_ , Athos. And, yes. Not a very good one.”

Athos checked his watch. “We won’t have time to go back to the café at this rate. Let’s meme ourselves home, shall we?”

D’Artagnan groaned. “I can’t tell if you’re using the term incorrectly to fuck with me or not.”

“And that is as it should be,” Athos said, accepting d’Artagnan’s arm and letting himself be steered toward home.

They reached Athos’ apartment in a short time and lingered outside for a minute.

“I’ve only got pajamas at your place, I have to go home for my nice clothes,” said d’Artagnan. He made no move to leave, though.

Athos slid his hands under d’Artagnan’s vest and straightened the collar of his t-shirt. His hands lingered on the sun-warmed nape of d’Artagnan’s neck. He didn’t dare to look up. “Perhaps you should leave some other things here the next time you visit.”

“Yeah?” d’Artagnan breathed. “Fancy stuff?”

“Or, you know. Regular… stuff. Everyday clothes. Perhaps your toothbrush. It’s ridiculous that you carry it back and forth each Saturday.” Athos cleared his throat. D’Artagnan’s smile was like the sun breaking out from behind a cloud. Athos could swear he was blinded by the sheer glow.

“It’s simply practical,” he said. “If you dress here I can easily veto your more atrocious articles of clothing. I can’t be sure you won’t show up in half an hour wearing your cat-hair sweater.”

His gut unclenched when d’Artagnan rolled his eyes extravagantly. “Jeez, I know how to dress up.”

Athos tugged on d’Artagnan’s collar and breathed easier with the moment having passed. “No jeans. Find a blazer, if you have one.”

“Yes, mother hen.”

“And brush your hair.”

“ _You_ brush your hair.” Despite his disgruntled response, d’Artagnan touched his forehead to Athos’. “I’ll be back soon, babycakes,” he murmured, as if he was embarking on a trip instead of running over a few streets to his apartment.

Athos tried to feel annoyed about it and was helpless against the wave of affection that swamped him. His heart beat more slowly, less frantically, with d’Artagnan so close. He pressed his lips to d’Artagnan’s in a soft kiss.

“You should go,” he said. “Before we’re late.”

“Right. I’ll see you soon. And I’ll bring directions, okay?”

D’Artagnan turned and loped down the streets that led to his subletted apartment. He only had less than an hour to get ready if they wanted to meet Ninon and Agnes on time.

His pace slowed until suddenly, he came to a dead stop on the sidewalk.

_...meet Ninon and Agnes…_

“Oh, shit,” he breathed.

He was going on a date with Athos’ ex. In a few hours.

Fuck.

He could practically hear Aurelia, his sister, clucking her tongue at him. “It’s your own fault you get yourself into these messes, _ragazzino_.”

“ _Fattate i cazzi te_ ,” he muttered at his sister. Mind your own fucking business.

Then he winced. Knowing Aurelia, he’d probably get an angry phone call tomorrow morning from Aurelia asking why her ears had been itching. Then she would curse him out for cursing her out.

Forty minutes later, however, d’Artagnan was far beyond caring about Aurelia’s wrath. He ran through a string of curses that condemned all his sisters, all his ancestors before them, and their descendants, before shouting, “Felix! Where’s the iron?”

There was no answer from his apartment; only a muffled thumping from Evan’s room down the hall.

D’Artagnan dug through the boxes, stuffed with clothes, which he had never unpacked since moving into his subletted room in the apartment he shared with four other people. He should have unpacked these boxes months ago, but d’Artagnan had found that spending time in Athos’ apartment was highly superior to trying to cram his belongings into the corners of his cramped sublet. The boxes had stayed shut and shoved into the corner of his room.

D’Artagnan plunged his hand to the very bottom of one of the boxes and emerged, triumphant, with a wrinkled but never-worn blazer jacket.

“Felix!” he shouted again.

He paused and straightened. Nothing. He jerked the door open and crossed the hall in a single step. He pounded on the door opposite his. “Felix! Where’s the iron?”

The door opened minutely, expelling a cloud of smoke. A baleful eye peered through the crack. “I dunno,” said Felix. He closed his door again.

D’Artagnan growled. “Where’s Max?”

“I dunno!” Felix yelled back.

“Fine,” d’Artagnan shouted. He looked around. From here he could see most of the rest of the apartment. The iron didn’t seem to be anywhere.

D’Artagnan crossed to the kitchen area and jerked open the pantry door. No iron, but there was a football on the top shelf, next to the rice.

The thumping from the room down the hall stopped abruptly. “Oh, baby, that was good,” a male voice groaned.

“Evan!” d’Artagnan shouted. He kicked a likely-looking pile of discarded clothes, but there was no iron hiding underneath. “Where’s the iron!”

“The what, dude?” Evan sounded cross. His girlfriend sounded crosser as she cursed d’Artagnan out. Loudly and inventively.

“The iron!”

“In the oven! Now shut the fuck up!”

“ _Che cazzo_ ,” d’Artagnan muttered. He threw open the oven door. The iron sat inside, perfectly innocent.

D’Artagnan hauled the iron back to his room. He cursed as he tripped over the toppled pile of clothes.

He didn’t have an ironing board; his bed would have to do. He checked his watch. If they wanted to make it on time -- if he wanted to make a good impression on Athos’ ex -- he had to be at Athos’ place in fifteen minutes.

He looked around for the print-out that listed the directions to the restaurant. Turning his computer on and coaxing the printer into printing had taken a chunk out of his time. Unearthing the “nice” clothes he’d bought a year ago for job interviews had taken too long.

He swore again as the iron smoked. He hastily lifted it up and saw a small, black hole burned into the sleeve of the blazer. He blew on it, hoping the air would fix it or cool it down or hide it or _something_.

D’Artagnan had never needed to iron his clothes before. The farm didn’t require fancy clothes. Police intern uniforms only needed dry-cleaning. No one he’d dated before had introduced d’Artagnan to exes who had started their own business and spoke like comtesses.

Papa would know what setting to use and how long to iron the blazer. But Papa wasn’t here.

Athos would know, but d’Artagnan wouldn’t call him. There was something too much like pride making him pretend that he had this under control.

It was too late to do anything but unplug the iron, grab the directions, shrug on his jacket, and dash out the door.

The major -- or only -- perk of d’Artagnan’s apartment was the location. If he cut over a few streets, he could be at Athos’ apartment in eight minutes.

D’Artagnan walked quickly, a little stiffly; he was unused to the blazer and the khakis. He missed his ripped skinny jeans. He was determined to do this right, though. For Athos. This dinner was important to him, and d’Artagnan would be damned if he messed it up.

This ‘Gris’ was probably a high-end restaurant. What did they call them? A “dining experience.”

Was the salad fork on the outside or the inside? Did he put his wine glass to the left or right of his plate, or did that not matter? Shit -- could he turn down the wine? Would that make him look too young? He couldn’t very well say “I don’t drink, as my boyfriend is an alcoholic.” Maybe if he made a point of looking over the wine menu…

What would he talk to Ninon about? The farm? His police job? She’d find the first distasteful and the second repulsive, considering her line of work. No, better find something else…

His racing thoughts and his quick step both faltered a street away from his destination. He was passing Paolo’s, a bakery that he passed almost daily. The sweet scent of frosting floated out to him on the evening breeze. D’Artagnan slowed until he found himself stopped in front of a window filled with a tray of perfectly coiffed cupcakes.

This bakery was always a challenge for d’Artagnan on his way to see Athos; a test of will. But today it was nearly irresistible. He remembered the cupcakes he’d passed up at the fair, only a few hours ago. These flavors weren’t as unusual, but the bakery was one of the best in the city. He wavered on the sidewalk outside the bakery, just outside the door.

He took two steps forward. He had to be on time.

A step back. One cupcake wouldn’t hurt, would it?

He couldn’t spoil his appetite though. That was a grown-up thing to consider, wasn’t it?

Maybe if he ate it really quickly, it wouldn’t count.

He hurried inside the bakery before he could argue himself out of it. The cupcake was his in a minute, and gone in less than that. D’Artagnan hit the sidewalk again, crammed the last bite of cupcake into his mouth, and picked up the pace.

Athos answered the door one-handed, busy pinning cufflinks through the sleeve of his other arm. D’Artagnan swallowed, suddenly feeling the cupcake icing thick in his throat like sludge. He didn’t have cufflinks. Should he have found some? He was supposed to know these things.

“I’m almost ready,” Athos said. His eyes scanned d’Artagnan from toe to head. “You look…” The way he trailed off calmed d’Artagnan’s nervous pulse. “You look very nice.”

He closed the door after d’Artagnan and moved in slowly, quietly, until d’Artagnan was pressed against the wall and Athos’ hand was on his waist. Athos kissed him hello.

Athos was licking his lips when he pulled away. “You had a cupcake.”

D’Artagnan tried not to wince. “It’ll ruin my appetite, I know,” he said quickly. “It was just a small one, though.”

“It was merely an observation,” Athos said, but he was watching d’Artagnan keenly.

He went in for another kiss. “Chocolate?” he murmured against d’Artagnan’s mouth. “Your comfort choice.”

“So?”

Athos’ hand curled tighter around d’Artagnan’s waist; holding him; supporting him with an embrace. “When Ninon invited us today, I noticed you agreed rather quickly.”

“I meant what I said. If you want to rekindle your old friendships, then I’m with you. Every step.”

“It was never my intention to do so at the sake of your comfort.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” d’Artagnan said immediately.

Athos made a point of letting go of d’Artagnan. “We don’t usually lie to each other, but if you wish to start now…”

D’Artagnan grabbed Athos’ forearms and firmly set him back in place, cuddled up to d’Artagnan. “No. Wait. I’m not, like, jealous of anything.”

“Good,” said Athos. “Believe me, you have no reason to be.”

“I know. Really, I know, Athos. It’s just.” D’Artagnan tried not to squirm. “I don’t know how to do all the fancy stuff she does.”

“Fancy?”

“You know, like ‘knowing’ the maitre d’ and going to snooty restaurants and stuff. I totally understand that you want to reconnect with old friends, but, it’s dumb, but if you start to want that kind of fancy stuff all the time, I don’t know any of it. I don’t know which forks are which or anything. Or, I don’t know, maybe you won’t want to go to the movies anymore. Maybe you’ll want to start going to the opera or something. I’ve only been to the opera once, and I fell asleep. I would be a terrible opera partner, Athos!”

He realized that Athos was stroking his back, and he slumped against the other man, accepting the comfort glumly. He buried his chin in the crook of Athos’ neck.

Athos winced but held on. “First of all,” he said, “you don’t have to be ‘fancy’ for me. I doubt I’ll discover a sudden love for opera, but if I did, you wouldn’t have to come with me.”

“That’s even worse,” d’Artagnan said into Athos’ shoulder. “That means I’m not an attentive boyf.”

“Please refrain from using mims during relationship talks,” Athos said pleasantly.

D’Artagnan raised his head enough to say clearly, “‘Boyf’ is not a meme; it’s an abbreviation, something my generation didn’t even invent.”

“Even if I did want to go to the opera,” Athos continued, “I would find a friend who shares my interest. You don’t have to be there for every single one of my ventures, darling, as much as I appreciate the thought. You don’t make me come to slasher flicks even though I hate them, do you?”

“No. I go with Constance. Oh.”

“Exactly. Secondly, I doubt Ninon’s choice of restaurant will be very ‘snooty’. In fact, I believe her taste in food is nearer to yours than mine.”

D’Artagnan drew back, regarding Athos suspiciously. “No three-course meals?”

“There may not even be one course. Ninon prefers venues that term themselves ‘innovative’ and ‘avant-garde’.” Athos scowled briefly. “The last time we went on a date, she chose a café that serves only blue food. I nearly fainted from hunger.”

D’Artagnan laughed briefly, but he still looked worried. “I don’t have to know which fork is which?”

“Not at all. I would have rejected Ninon’s offer if I thought it meant going to a five-star restaurant and making small talk about the opera. That isn’t who I am anymore, and I don’t wish to waste my time with it.”

“Oh.” That meant Athos would rather spend time with _him_. “Well, good.”

“I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable at Gris. You may show us up with your culinary knowledge.”

D’Artagnan tried to hide his pleased blush. “I’m not that good of a cook.”

“I say you are.”

“I say you’d be happy with cardboard slathered in sweet-and-sour sauce.” Nevertheless, d’Artagnan gave Athos a fond look as he moved out of his embrace. “Come on, we should go,” he said, as if he’d been chivvying Athos along all this time.

“As you say.” Athos fetched his keys and wallet, and followed d’Artagnan out the door.

Once they were on the street, d’Artagnan glanced at Athos’ wrists. “Aren’t the cufflinks a bit fancy, though?”

“Ah.” Athos fiddled with his cuffs. “I thought I should spruce up my look -- we couldn’t both wear blazers.”

“And making your ex jealous of how good you look doesn’t have anything to do with it?” D’Artagnan bumped his shoulder against Athos’.

“I understand it’s a common sentiment when meeting a former lover,” Athos said stiffly.

D’Artagnan laughed at him. “Sure. I’ve just never seen anyone do it with --” he raised one of Athos’ wrists to his face -- “gold-plated cufflinks. Is that a rooster?”

“They were my father’s.”

“Oh. They’re nice.”

D’Artagnan narrowly avoided walking into a streetlight and hastily let go of Athos’ wrist.

The evenings were falling earlier now. D’Artagnan knew he would be glad for the light jacket in a few hours, when the night fell and the cool autumn breezes whistled down the narrow avenues.

“Is the dusk the same here as it was on the farm?” Athos asked. “You said the mornings were the same.”

D’Artagnan did a double-take. “You were listening this morning?”

“Of course. I always listen to you.”

“Oh.” D’Artagnan took a moment to reflect on what a perfect boyfriend he had. He sighed happily. “The evenings are different here, I guess. They’re busier.”

Indeed, there were Parisians and tourists of all sorts on the streets tonight, finding their favorite places to eat or exploring new ones. Evening in Paris was the beginning to the night, not an end to the day.

Streetlights dotted the hazy dusk with glowing halos. Their path took them past boutiques with carefully arranged windows and bookstores that Athos slowed to peer at.

Gris was a narrow, grey building with yellow trim squeezed between two other shops. The sign above the doorway read ‘Gris: Bio Nature - Organic Food.’ A string of fairy lights wound around the outdoor seating area. Athos and d’Artagnan stood on the sidewalk and stared at the pretty scene.

“It looks… normal,” said d’Artagnan. “Okay, not what I expected.”

“I confess, I’m surprised too,” said Athos. “And relieved.” He looked rueful when d’Artagnan turned to him. “I may wish to accept Ninon’s friendship, but I draw the line at monochrome food.”

D’Artagnan snorted.

“Come here.” He tugged Athos to him. “One more kiss for luck.” He kissed Athos, quick and dirty, in the fading light of the evening. “God knows I’ll need it, to have a polite conversation with someone who thought you weren’t good enough for her.”

Athos looked equal parts pleased and exasperated. “Really, d’Artagnan, she didn’t exactly break my heart.”

“Still. I don’t know how on earth we’ll get along.”

* * * * *

Ninon leaned over her plate, her food forgotten, her bright eyes sparkling with mirth. “So I asked him why he was bringing flowers, and he said,” Ninon affected a deep voice, “‘It’s customary for a second date.’ I asked him when our first date had been, and he said ‘Yesterday.’”

“He didn’t mean the morgue?” D’Artagnan gasped with laughter.

Ninon burst into giggles. “He did!”

D’Artagnan reached across the table and clasped Ninon’s hand soulfully. “You’d never been to a morgue before. It’s not your fault you didn’t realize Athos was courting you.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you understand.” Ninon pretended to wipe away a tear. “All this time I thought I was so unknowing in the ways of men.”

Across from Athos’ seat at the tiny table, Agnes gave him a sympathetic smile. The tables at Gris were tiny squares of repurposed wood, all lined up to fit the diners into the narrow rectangular space of the restaurant. Athos’ left knee knocked against d’Artagnan’s and his right against a stranger’s. Try as he might, he couldn’t block out the sound of his former and current lover swapping stories about him.

“How did you and Ninon meet?” Athos asked Agnes in an attempt to ignore the conversation to his left.

“It’s a bit of a funny story, actually. We met in a holding cell.”

Agnes winced as Ninon and d’Artagnan burst into another round of laughter and d’Artagnan said, “No, let me tell you about the time he tried to cook for me…”

“Go on,” Athos urged.

“Er, of course.” Agnes straightened. “Well, it was a bit messy at the time, but I was in a custody battle over Henri with my late husband’s mother. She wanted him to be raised with her in Brussels, and she was contesting Philippe’s, my husband’s, will. I won’t go into it, but I fought her in court.”

A gleam appeared in Agnes’ eye, a hint of the steel that lay beneath her quiet exterior. “She had me arrested on charges of child abuse -- Henri is allergic to some medicines, and his symptoms appear as bruises on his skin. Ninon helped me fight the charges and get lawyers to explain why the spots appeared. But -- I’m getting it all mixed up -- that was after Ninon was put in holding for being arrested at a rally.”

“You don’t say.”

“Oh, yes. This was before she started her education business. Ninon says she was very wild for a time after her student was killed -- I believe that was when you met her?”

“Yes,” said Ninon, suddenly joining the conversation. She barely had to lean over to be on their side of the table. She and d’Artagnan had apparently worn themselves out on stories of Athos’ incompetencies. Athos eyed d’Artagnan, who was still stifling giggles in his napkin.

“Yes, Athos and I met then.” She said in an aside to d’Artagnan, “I taught at a private school. One of my students was killed when she was trying to report a murder to the police. I stopped working there after I saw how no one seemed to care about Thérèse’s death.” A shadow crossed her face, then was banished with effort. “What about the two of you? I’m sure you met under better circumstances than murder.”

“Uh,” said d’Artagnan.

“And now you two are engaged, I believe?” Athos said smoothly. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Agnes beamed as she took Ninon’s hand. “We just got engaged last month.”

“Oh, Agnes! I just thought of --” Ninon looked at Agnes and then, on some unseen signal, turned back to d’Artagnan and Athos. “We must invite you to our wedding. Don’t worry, it’s not for another year. We want Henri to be able to remember it when he grows up.”

Athos’ breath vanished. He glanced at d’Artagnan, who was looking back at him with a poleaxed expression. Could Athos be so brazen as to assume that they would still be together in another year?

D’Artagnan took Athos’ hand, much as Agnes had taken Ninon’s. “I’d like that,” d’Artagnan said softly.

Athos’ heart skipped a beat. “As would I.”

“Excellent!” said Ninon, breaking the moment. “We’ll send you an invitation.”

Athos cleared his throat and turned back to his plate. He held d’Artagnan’s hand under the table a moment longer before letting go. “After you met,” he prompted, “I assume you gained custody of your son?”

“Yes,” Agnes confirmed. “Ninon’s lawyers helped tremendously.” She smiled at her fiancée. “And we weren’t even together at the time.”

“I was simply helping out a lovely woman in need. How could I know I would fall in love with her and her son?” She told the other two, “Agnes was my muse for my company. She and I are partners, you know, but she takes hardly any credit.”

“I just figured out the finances,” Agnes said, shaking her head.

“Sweetheart, no one has a head for numbers like you do.” Ninon told the men, “She’s an angel. She told me exactly how to set up my company to get it approved as a small business.”

“Ninon has an eye for business, though,” said Agnes. “She knows exactly who to talk to. Isn’t your friend Flea the one who’s going to do the LGBTQ lectures?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I didn’t know Flea was so well known.”

“Of course!” said Ninon. “Xe has a head for business, too. Xir shelters are the top-funded nonprofit organization in France. Agnes, you and Flea should meet sometime. I’m sure xe would love you.”

“You say that about everyone,” Agnes said.

“I say it because it’s true. But we really must get you two together. I called Flea today to talk about the lectures, and we decided a fundraiser might be a good way to hit off our partnership. We could have it at my estate. Athos, don’t you remember it?”

D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows at Athos, trying to convey his amusement that Ninon had an honest-to-goodness estate she could clear out for parties.

“I was only there once,” said Athos, “but I believe so. It’s just outside of Paris?”

“Quite the perfect spot for a large fundraiser. Anyway, Agnes, you could talk to Flea and figure out what xe wants for entertainment budgeting. I have the feeling that her idea of a party is too tame for what we need. Maybe you can encourage her to let you handle the expenses.”

Athos, too, had the feeling that Flea’s ideas for a fundraiser were immensely different than Ninon’s, but he kept quiet. He would let that drama happen away from him.

They finished the meal in their own time, pausing to explain what exactly a working farm did; and how a two-year old could scramble on top of a refrigerator; and the logistics of arresting a suspect after they had jumped into the Seine. The food was not blue, thank goodness; and the dishes were rich with local fruits and vegetables.

When the check came, Athos and Ninon both insisted that they would pay. They went back and forth until Agnes, who had already hailed the waiter, decreed that they both split the bill and ordered them to hand over their credit cards.

“I can’t resist that logic,” Ninon said. “D’Artagnan, why don’t we leave these two to settle the bill? It’s such a nice night out; I’m sure we could do with a stretch.”

D’Artagnan glanced at Athos, but followed Ninon outside the restaurant, where they stood on the sidewalk in the clear night air. Ninon tilted her face to the sky. They had talked into the night and the streetlights were bright now against the dark. They lit Ninon’s golden hair and made her shine.

D’Artagnan closed his eyes as well. He could feel the light of the lamps, too; they glowed behind his eyelids. He didn’t feel lessened by standing next to Ninon anymore. He fancied that he could feel himself shine, too, in the light.

Ninon sighed as if she was about to speak, and d’Artagnan opened his eyes. Ninon was looking at him with a half-smile on her face.

“I don’t mince words,” she said. “But when I tell you that I was surprised to hear Athos introduce you as his boyfriend today, I hope you won’t be offended.”

“Because I’m younger,” d’Artagnan guessed. “Or because you didn’t know he was bi?”

Ninon shook her head. “Neither of those surprise me. It’s the way he acts around you. When we dated, he shied away from labels and terms of affection. It was a very short romance, there wasn’t time for us to blossom into anything more than lovers; but nevertheless, he was so formal. Very unsure of himself. I ended it with him because I didn’t think that Athos would ever be capable of being open with a significant other.”

D’Artagnan stayed quiet.

“I was right, in a way. When he looks at you, I see everything he couldn’t be with me. There is affection in his eyes, even when he speaks of you. I thought he was handsome before, but he is truly beautiful, d’Artagnan, when he is with you.”

D’Artagnan blinked rapidly. “Thanks.”

“I think it is I who should be thanking you,” said Ninon. “Athos had a lot of baggage -- perhaps he still does. But you seem to be helping him share the weight. I only hope that the effort doesn’t hurt you both.”

The restaurant’s door opened with a tinkle of bells and Athos and Agnes stepped out, chatting amiably. D’Artagnan couldn’t help the smile that overcame his face when he saw Athos. It was an automatic response by now: a smile for the person who brought him the most joy.

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he said. "Not with us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sigmund for helping with the Italian!
> 
> Comments are extremely appreciated, especially as I'm heading in Big Bang time and find that praise keeps my spirits bolstered. Thank you to all who encouraged me on this particular piece <3 
> 
> 'Gris,' which is "grey" in French, is a nod to Luke Pasqualino's recent role in 'Snowpiercer.' If you haven't seen that, I definitely recommend it. If not for the message of rising up against a violent, oppressive, system, then for Luke with his shirt off.


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